


I See Fire

by wingedspirit



Series: Winter 2019 Prompts [22]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: 31 Days of Ineffables Advent Calendar Challenge (Good Omens), 31 Days of Ineffables Advent Calendar Challenge 2019 (Good Omens), Crowley is a little traumatised, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, The South Downs Cottage
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-27
Updated: 2019-12-27
Packaged: 2021-02-18 07:21:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,324
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21990394
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wingedspirit/pseuds/wingedspirit
Summary: There are some things Crowley can’t easily forget.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: Winter 2019 Prompts [22]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1560823
Comments: 7
Kudos: 158





	I See Fire

**Author's Note:**

> Written for [drawlight](https://archiveofourown.org/users/drawlight)’s [advent calendar prompt list](https://drawlight.tumblr.com/post/188869931294/aziraphale-crowley-for-half-an-hour-youve-been) (day 22, warmth).

Crowley hadn’t meant to stay out for so long. The plan had been to make a quick trip to the village just to buy some groceries; but the village people had apparently made their mind up about him, and what they’d decided was that, in spite of his best attempts to discourage them, they _liked_ him.

And so there’d been people stopping him in the street for a quick chat, and a longer conversation with the head of the local gardening club about what his plans were for the cottage garden; and then the owner of the antique shop had called out to him as he passed by, said she’d just gotten some new books in that his fella might like, and did he want to take a look?

Of course Crowley had wanted to take a look. Most of the books had been nothing special, but there had been a few he knew Aziraphale didn’t own yet, and would like. Going through the whole pile of books had taken time, and convincing the owner that he did not, in fact, want to haggle on the price — that he was fine paying whatever she thought the books were worth — had taken even more time on top of that.

So it’s dark and cold by the time he gets back to the cottage, with three new books for Aziraphale, four large bags of groceries that absolutely wouldn’t have fit in the Bentley’s boot if not for a well-placed demonic miracle, and a rather bedraggled, sad-looking poinsettia he probably shouldn’t have let himself be talked into buying, except he’d felt sorry for it.

“Angel?” Crowley miracles the groceries into the fridge and cupboards, kicks his shoes off and sheds his coat, hanging it on a hook in the entryway. He maintains that the fluffy, knee-length coat makes him look entirely ridiculous — like a duvet that’s suddenly decided to grow legs and start walking around — but Aziraphale had talked him into it, and he has to admit, it _is_ nice to not be freezing his arse off every time he goes outside. He could, of course, make it so he doesn’t feel the cold, but after six thousand years, he’s used to doing things the human way. Wearing a coat is easier.

“Aziraphale?” There’s no answer to his call, but it doesn’t worry him. The wards they’d set up together around the cottage are all intact, and the cottage itself is quite large — it was larger than the average house to begin with, and it got even larger once they were done miracling it to their satisfaction. Like as not, Aziraphale is simply absorbed in a book. It’s happened before.

He takes the poinsettia to the conservatory, sets it on a plant stand and informs it, gently, that it’s going to be taken care of properly now, so it ought to start perking up. The rest of the plants in the conservatory rustle their leaves, as if to underline his point. They’re not afraid of him anymore, something for which Aziraphale is entirely to blame, having taken to reassuring them after each and every one of Crowley’s shouting sessions. No, the angel would say, don’t worry, he doesn’t actually destroy those of you who fail to be perfect; and yes, of course he loves you, he’s just bad at showing it.

Thus angelically comforted, the plants had stopped being terrified of him; but they still grew well, and he could tell they did so because they wanted to please him — and how was he meant to keep shouting at them without feeling guilty, knowing that? He’d ended up stopping in the middle of a threatening session, and apologising to the bloody plants, instead. Aziraphale had been unbearably smug for weeks.

“Angel?” Crowley calls, again, walking back into the cottage proper. “I have new books for you!”

Nothing.

Crowley sighs. Going through the cottage room by room until he finds his distracted angel it is, then.

Aziraphale isn’t in the kitchen, or in his study, or in the library; but in the living room —

Fire.

A tall, roaring wall of fire, and Aziraphale —

_Aziraphale! Where the Heaven are you, you idiot?_

— Aziraphale is crumpled in front of it, unconscious, unmoving —

_I can’t find you!_

— no, no, no, not _again_ —

_Somebody killed my best friend!_

Crowley is distantly aware that he’s fallen to his knees, head bowed, his legs no longer bearing his weight. He needs to get to Aziraphale, but he can’t seem to make himself move —

“Crowley?”

Crowley looks up so fast he almost falls over. “Angel?”

“When did you get home?” Aziraphale has rolled over, is blinking sleepily at him.

“About ten minutes ago,” Crowley manages, the panic receding a little. “Did you not hear me calling?”

“I was reading.” Aziraphale stretches, leisurely, then props himself up with one elbow on — a cushion. A sofa cushion. “I must have fallen asleep. Ooh, are those new books?”

Disbelieving, Crowley looks to his right, where the sofa usually is. It’s still there; but it’s been stripped bare of cushions, and the tartan throw that’s normally draped over the back of it is gone, too.

When he looks back, the scene looks entirely different. The fire is crackling merrily in the fireplace — the tall, wide fireplace Aziraphale had insisted was a necessary part of any self-respecting living room; Aziraphale is wrapped in the tartan throw, and looks relaxed and cozy and comfortable in his nest of cushions.

“Crowley?” Aziraphale asks, carefully. “Is everything alright?”

“Yeah.” Crowley takes a deep breath, lets it out slowly. He’s fine. Of course he’s fine. No need to make Aziraphale worry. “You know, a sensible person might’ve dragged the sofa over instead. A sensible _angel_ might’ve just miracled the whole room warmer instead. That can’t be comfortable.”

Aziraphale looks at him keenly for a moment, eyebrows furrowed, saying nothing. “Come over here,” he says, finally.

Crowley considers the distance between them, as well as the fact that his legs still feel like jelly, and chooses the simplest solution to the issue — miracling himself across the room. If he ends up between Aziraphale and the fireplace, that’s merely happenstance, or so he tries to tell himself. “I was right, this is not remotely comfortable,” he mumbles, wrapping himself around Aziraphale.

“That’s because you’re on the floor, not on the cushions,” Aziraphale says, softly, with no bite at all; and puts a hand over Crowley‘s arms, where they are wrapped around his belly. “My dear…”

“Not my fault you’re a cushion hog.” Crowley buries his face in Aziraphale’s neck and very firmly wills himself to stop shaking. It doesn’t really work.

“Oh, love.” Aziraphale turns around in Crowley’s arms so they’re face to face, wraps his arms around him, holds him tight. Twists the both of them around somehow — there’s probably a miracle involved — so they end up in the same position they started with, Crowley with his back to the fireplace, but both of them now on the cushions, under the throw. “The fire?” he asks, very gently.

“I’m _fine_ ,” Crowley insists, more hoarsely than he’d like. “Now that I’m on the cushions, anyway,” he adds, as an afterthought, deflecting as best he can. “Floor was cold.”

“Yes, that’s rather the point of the cushions.” Aziraphale has started carding a hand through Crowley’s hair, gently. “Shall we go get dinner started?”

Bless his angel for knowing when to stop pushing. “In a bit.” The tension is seeping out of him, slowly. “Tell me about the book you were reading?”

Aziraphale launches into a retelling of the plot of his novel, and Crowley lets his eyes slip closed. He’s safe. They’re safe. There’s nothing of destruction here, nothing of burning books or ash or smoke. Just the clean smell of burning firewood, the gentle crackling of the flames, the radiant warmth of the fire at his back and, just as brilliantly warm, Aziraphale in his arms.

**Author's Note:**

> Slowly catching up on prompts after the holidays interfered. Yes, I dodged this back when the prompt was “fire” and then ended up writing it anyway, for which I blame [Kedreeva](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kedreeva/pseuds/Kedreeva) entirely.
> 
> You can find me on [Tumblr](https://wingedspirit.tumblr.com/), should you wish to.


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